Part 13 (2/2)

It isn't the talent I'm wantin'-- Sure my father, ould Michael McCrary, Made a beautiful last s.p.a.che and confession When they hanged him in ould Tipperary.

So, Bridget Muldoon, howld yer talkin'

About Womins' Rights, and all that!

Sure all the rights I want is the one right, To be a good helpmate to Pat;

For he's a good husband--and niver Lays on me the weight of his hand Except when he's far gone in liquor, And I nag him, you'll plase understand.

Thrue for ye, I've one eye in mournin', That's becaze I disputed his right, To tak' and spind all my week's earnin's At Tim Mulligan's wake, Sunday night.

But it's sildom when I've done a was.h.i.+n', He'll ask for more'n half of the pay; An' he'll toss me my share, wid a smile, dear, That's like a swate mornin' in May!

Now where, if I rin to convintions, Will be Patrick's home-comforts and joys?

Who'll clane up his broghans for Sunday, Or patch up his ould corduroys.

If we tak' to the polls, night and mornin', Our dilicate charms will all flee-- The dew will be brushed from the rose, dear, The down from the pache--don't you see?

We'll soon tak' to s.h.i.+llalahs and s.h.i.+ndies Whin we get to be sovereign electors, And turn all our husbands' hearts from us, Thin what will we do for protectors?

We'll have to be crowners an' judges, An' such like ould malefactors, Or they'll make Common Councilmin of us; Thin where will be our char-acters?

Oh, Bridget, G.o.d save us from votin'!

For sure as the blissed sun rolls, We'll land in the State House or Congress, Thin what will become of our sowls?

Or the triumphs of a quack, by Miss Amanda T. Jones.

DOCHTHER O'FLANNIGAN AND HIS WONDHERFUL CURES.

I.

I'm Barney O'Flannigan, lately from Cork; I've crossed the big watther as bould as a shtork.

'Tis a dochther I am and well versed in the thrade; I can mix yez a powdher as good as is made.

Have yez pains in yer bones or a throublesome ache In yer jints afther dancin' a jig at a wake?

Have yez caught a black eye from some blundhering whack?

Have yez vertebral twists in the sphine av yer back?

Whin ye're walkin' the shtrates are yez likely to fall?

Don't whiskey sit well on yer shtomick at all?

Sure 'tis botherin' nonsinse to sit down and wape Whin a bit av a powdher ull put yez to shlape.

Shtate yer symptoms, me darlins, and niver yez doubt But as sure as a gun I can shtraighten yez out!

Thin don't yez be gravin' no more; Arrah! quit all yer sighin' forlorn; Here's Barney O'Flannigan right to the fore, And bedad! he's a gintleman born!

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